


uncharted

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 02, Violence, and background but very present buffy/angel, past jenny/lilah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 05:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18613789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: There's no prophecy dream to out Jenny to the group—it's her that tells the Scoobies the truth. But that doesn't stop her from taking on a whole lot of guilt anyway.Featuring all the hallmarks of Jenny Calendar: bad decisions, late-night research, pushing people away, and a flagrant disregard for personal safety. (Plus a deep and abiding love for a gentle librarian, obviously.)





	1. though i may be going down (part one)

**Author's Note:**

> fic and chapter titles taken from _uncharted_ by sara bareilles.
> 
> written for 2019's jenny calendar day!!! gotta love everyone's favorite techno-mess of a computer science teacher.

Jenny had never been the beloved daughter, or the cherished friend, or anything remotely close to being loved. It was why, when Rupert looked at her with those sweet, trusting eyes, she felt her chest tighten with something akin to panic. Their relationship felt tenuous and fragile and always on the verge of breaking, especially now that her past had come back with a vengeance.

And speaking of vengeance.

She took Buffy and Rupert to her uncle, because she knew she had to. She told them it would all become clear when they met him, because she was afraid. She opened the door and found him in pieces on a hotel bed, and then she felt her knees give way.

 _Your fault,_ she could hear him saying. _Faithless, disloyal, traitorous child._

She didn’t even realize she was crying until she felt Rupert’s arms around her. And then Buffy, sweet girl that she was, squirming her way into the hug and whispering fierce, angry words of comfort. Fury at Angel, worry for Jenny—and it was all, all, all Jenny’s fault, and how could they not see that?

“Let go of me,” she said, her voice thick with tears. Buffy did. Rupert didn’t. “Let  _go!”_ she snapped, and shoved him away, standing up on shaking legs. She stared at what was left of her family, blood and guts and viscera all painstakingly disassembled by her childhood monster, and then she ran without looking back.

Her car was still parked outside. Angelus was leaning against the driver’s side, and he looked at her with a small smile. “Lost little Janna,” he said. “The old man told me about you.”

Jenny couldn’t breathe.

“I won’t tell them, you know,” said Angelus, and stepped up to her, placing a cold, cold hand to her face. No—his hand was warm, very slightly, with the blood of Jenny’s uncle on his fingertips, dripping from his mouth, splattered artfully across the front of his shirt. “I think it’s much more fun to watch you fall apart.”

Jenny couldn’t breathe.

“You know, he told me you were weak?” said Angelus, almost conversationally. “He said they should have picked someone braver for the job. I see in you what I saw in Buffy, Janna—your love is going to drag you down to your death.” His hand tightened on her face, fingernails digging in—

“GET AWAY FROM HER,” she heard Rupert shout from behind her, footsteps sprinting up.

“Saved by the bell,” said Angelus, and drew his nails down her cheek in a smooth, fluid motion.

Jenny cried out, stumbling on the curb and falling backwards into Rupert’s arms. She clapped a hand to her face, cheek stinging, and watched Angelus stroll away.

“Ms. Calendar,” Rupert was saying, soft and panicked as he held her, “Ms. _Calendar—_ ”

She knew he was returning to formalities to ground them both, and bizarrely, it was actually kind of working. Jenny turned in his arms, still struggling to catch her breath, and tried to tell him _something._ It had felt so important to get them to see her uncle, it had felt so important for _her_ to see him again, to know that this wasn’t her fault—but she could have asked, she could have questioned, instead of following blindly just because she so fucking wanted her family to be proud—

“Jenny,” Rupert whispered. “Darling. Look at me.”

Even in this moment of danger and terror, Rupert’s eyes were gentle and bright, his hands resting tenderly on her waist. Grounding her. “Rupert,” she managed, chest tight. “I’m so sorry.”

“None of this is in any way your fault, is it?” said Rupert, and god, he was looking at her with such _trust—_ as if it didn’t even matter what she told him, in this moment, because he would always, always forgive her.

“He’s dead,” Jenny whispered.

“I know, Jenny. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be—don’t be sorry.” Jenny tried to pull away, but she was still too shaken to manage standing on her own. She ended up clinging to Rupert instead, entirely by accident—there was a metaphor that could be made out of that, she thought. “This is my fault,” she said.

“No,” said Rupert.

“You don’t know—”

“I don’t need to,” said Rupert, letting his forehead rest against hers.

“Hey,” said Buffy. Her voice was unsteady. “Guys. Is everything okay?”

Rupert turned. Jenny let her head fall to rest against his shoulder. “I’m not entirely sure,” Rupert said. “And I don’t think now is the best time to question Jenny about it.”

“I don’t know how much time we have,” said Buffy, not unkindly.

“Buffy, I’m taking her home,” said Rupert flatly. “We’ll talk a bit more about this in the morning.”

“Who was that guy in the bedroom?” Buffy asked Jenny.

“My uncle,” said Jenny. “I thought he could help.”

The resolute world-saver faded away, replaced by a shaken seventeen-year-old. “Oh,” said Buffy. “Oh—yeah, oh my _god,_ yes, Giles, take her home—” She moved forward, giving Jenny a tight, awkward hug. “It’s okay,” she said. “It isn’t your fault, Ms. Calendar, I promise.”

“It isn’t yours either,” said Jenny, because Buffy looked so _little_ , and so ready to carry this guilt all on her own. “Okay?”

Buffy nodded, but it was clear she didn’t believe it. “Get her home safe, Giles,” she said to Rupert. “I think I’ll take the long way. I _really_ feel like killing something right now.” With that, she headed in the same direction as Angelus, looking back only once.

“Let’s get you home,” Rupert murmured, sliding an arm around Jenny’s waist.

“You’re so gentle with me,” Jenny mumbled, turning her cheek into his chest—and remembering, with horror, that her face was probably still all bloody from the scratches. She pulled her face back, and saw the bloodstains on Rupert’s sweater vest, and there was probably some of her uncle’s blood mixed in there too, Angelus’s hands had been _covered_ in it—

Jenny wrenched herself out of Rupert’s arms and threw up on the sidewalk. Mortifyingly, she followed this up by bursting into tears again, collapsing to the pavement and burying her bloodied face in her hands. _You are still Janna,_ said her uncle’s voice in her head, and god, why hadn’t she _listened_ to him? She should have listened to him, because if she’d been good enough, he would never have had to come down here, he would have still been _alive—_

Rupert knelt down next to her. Gently, he pried her hands away from her face, then kissed the knuckles. “I can’t take your pain and your guilt away,” he said quietly. “I know I can’t do that. But I can take you home, and I can promise that you won’t wake up alone.”

“You can’t promise that,” said Jenny thickly. “Nothing is a given in this fucking town.”

“I’ll promise what I damn well want to promise, Jenny,” said Rupert, and gave her this little quirk of a smile that she’d seen him give the kids—Buffy when she was freaking out over a test, Willow when she’d misplaced her homework. _Everything’s going to be all right,_ it said. _And if it isn’t, it’ll have me to answer to._

Jenny made a noise between a sob and a laugh. _I love you,_ she thought, and almost said it, but even the horror of the night hadn’t removed her fear of the words. “Can you help me with my cheek when we get home?” she asked, raising trembling fingers to her face. It still stung. Then, belatedly, “Sorry I got blood on your sweater vest.”

“As an extremely attractive technopagan once pointed out,” said Rupert, gently pulling Jenny to her feet, “my closet is comprised _entirely_ of sweater vests. I’ll be fine.”

Jenny giggled wetly and leaned into him. “Thank you,” she said.

“Of course,” said Rupert, and tugged her into his side, walking them both over to the car. “We’ll drive you home and fix you up, and it’ll all feel better in the morning.”

“I  _seriously_ doubt that,” said Jenny.

“That’s the spirit,” said Rupert, rubbing her back. “Tell me how idiotically wrong I am. Adds a bit of normalcy to the situation, I think.”

Jenny started laughing again—semi-hysterical laughter, granted, but laughter nonetheless. As Rupert opened the car door for her, she turned her head up to look at him, and he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You’re wrong,” she said, still giggling. “You’re _wrong—_ ”

“Yes, of course, dear,” said Rupert tenderly, helping her into the car. His fingers stroked her good cheek, and Jenny leaned into his touch with a sigh. For all her efforts to pretend otherwise, Rupert Giles really did comfort her in a way that no one else ever had. “I’ll drive you home.”

* * *

 

Had she entered her house alone that night, it might have felt small, and dark, and full of ghosts, the silent solitude weighing Jenny down almost as much as the guilt did. But Rupert turned on the light, kissed her, sat her down on the couch, and bustled about looking for the first-aid kit, humming softly as he did so. Her home felt expansive, full of love and safety and the sound of his voice. _How are you so good at this?_ Jenny wanted to ask him, but suddenly found herself too exhausted to even manage speaking.

Rupert came back with a small basin of water and a washcloth, first-aid kit stuffed clumsily in his jacket pocket. Kneeling down in front of the coffee table, he placed the basin down first, then the washcloth, then tugged the kit free of his jacket, setting it down in between the two.

Watching him take off his jacket, Jenny didn’t know what the hell she could say to him that would convey how much she loved him in this moment. She settled for lingering on little details, storing them away for the day he wouldn’t be in her life anymore: the laugh lines around his mouth, the scar on his forehead, the dusting of grey in his hair, the glint of gold on his ring.

Rupert finally straightened up, turning on the floor so that he was kneeling before Jenny instead. Wetting the cloth, he raised it to her face, dabbing gently at her cheek.

At the sharp sting of pain, Jenny drew in a choked gasp, grabbing at his sweater vest and holding on tight. “It’s all right, love,” Rupert murmured, raising his free hand to hold hers closer to his chest. “I know it hurts. Focus on me, all right?” His eyes flickered to Jenny’s cheek, and whatever he saw there made cold, hard anger settle in his gaze. “I daresay I’m not that fond of Angelus at this juncture,” he said. “Though I’m sure that’s not a very original statement.”

“Can we maybe not talk about Angelus right now?” said Jenny thinly.

Rupert’s face softened. “Anything you like, Jenny,” he said.

Jenny almost laughed. “God,” she said. “If anyone had told me you’d give in this easy after we went on a few dates—”

“Oh, it wasn’t the dates that have me agreeing to your requests,” said Rupert, who had placed down the washcloth (Jenny tried not to look at the blood) and was now applying ointment to the scratches. “I…value your company quite highly.”

That made Jenny really smile. “You’re straight out of Regency England, sometimes,” she said, reaching up with her free hand to straighten his glasses. “My own darling Darcy.”

Rupert glowed at the _darling,_ but didn’t comment, only squeezed her hand as he taped the bandage down. “It doesn’t look to be too deep,” he said. “Thank god it wasn’t Spike—I’m fairly certain  _he_ files his nails down to points.”

“Like hot band rebel Ripper didn’t mess with his own nails?” Jenny teased.

“Well, generally I wasn’t slicing people’s faces,” said Rupert, hesitated, and said, “Actually, scratch that.” Jenny burst out laughing. “What?” said Rupert, and then started giggling a bit himself. “Oh—pun not entirely intended, Jenny, I merely meant—it’s a bit difficult to navigate romantic encounters when you’ve got painted nails that you’ve filed into points to look _punk_ —”

Jenny let her forehead fall against Rupert’s, still giggling, and rubbed her nose against his. He closed his eyes, smiling. “You make it better,” she murmured. “You make _me_ better.”

Rupert opened his eyes, looking up at her with—something new. Jenny didn’t know how to define it. Quietly, he said, “Shall I take you to bed, Ms. Calendar?”

Jenny wasn’t tired enough to miss what he was really asking. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah,” and kissed him, soft and slow, in that way that meant they’d be bedroom-bound soon enough.

* * *

 

This time, sleeping with Rupert felt…different…than it had before. And that was all that Jenny would allow herself to admit.

* * *

 

She slept dreamlessly, and woke up with her head a little clearer, but the guilt still weighed heavy on her chest. Rupert was, of course, already awake by the time she had gotten dressed and entered the kitchen. He was making eggs Florentine and toast, dressed in the extra set of pajamas he always kept on hand at her place, and the domesticity of the moment made Jenny feel strangely comforted.

“How’s my patient?” he asked, turning from the stove to lightly touch the bandage on Jenny’s cheek.

“Feeling kinda ridiculous,” said Jenny honestly, making a face. Her cheek stung. “I was—god, I don’t think I’ve ever been _such_ a mess before, and certainly not in front of you.”

“Jenny, you _did_ find the extremely gory remains of a family member who was murdered in cold blood,” said Rupert pointedly. “Even without Angelus confronting you—and god knows what that monster was trying to accomplish—”

“I know,” said Jenny. There wasn’t any time to beat around the bush. “I-I know what Angelus was trying to accomplish.”

Rupert blinked, setting down the spatula. “I’m sorry?”

Jenny swallowed, heart pounding. “I—”

She had to tell him. She had to tell him, and whatever his reaction was would be justified, but—god, he had held her all night last night, as though she really was someone precious to him. It was going to hurt like a bitch to have him leave her life. She didn’t know if she was strong enough.

“Jenny,” said Rupert, and stepped forward, taking her hands. “Remember what I told you? None of this is your fault.”

Jenny shook her head, staring down at their joined hands. Quietly, she said, “My family’s the family that cursed Angel with his soul.”

She felt Rupert’s hands stiffen in hers, but he didn’t pull away. “I see,” he said slowly. “Is your family the reason he has lost it again?”

“No,” said Jenny. “No, but—”

“Then how is this your fault?”

Jenny looked up at him, half-expecting his face to be tight with anger. But Rupert just looked concerned, and a little confused, which gave her enough courage to keep going. “I-I was sent here to watch him,” she said. “Make sure he was still suffering, for, for what he did to my people.”

“I see,” said Rupert again.

“I never wanted to get anyone hurt—”

“That’s rather the antithesis of vengeance, Jenny,” said Rupert a little archly.

Jenny drew in a soft, shaky breath. “I don’t like vengeance,” she said. “I just really wanted to make my family happy.”

Rupert’s face softened. “Oh,” he said. “Well. I think I can understand that bit.”

“And I honestly had no idea about you being a Watcher, or, or about Buffy—Rupert, you have to believe me when I say I would _never_ have hurt her,” Jenny continued, the words spilling out as all her worries came to the forefront. “I didn’t even want to hurt _Angel,_ I didn’t know _anything_ about the curse being breakable until last night—”

“Oh,  _Jenny,_ ” said Rupert. His voice broke. “Do you really think I would think so little of you?”

“I don’t _know,_ ” said Jenny. She was crying a little herself. “I think _really_ little of me right now, Rupert. I had no idea this could happen, and I should have—I should have _asked—”_

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for this,” said Rupert, low and fierce. “If this was your mission, you should have been better informed—and I have _no_ doubt you would have taken steps to keep the curse from breaking, had you known it was breakable.”

“I would have told you in a heartbeat,” Jenny whispered. “I wouldn’t have even hesitated.”

“I know,” Rupert murmured. “I know.” He kissed her forehead. “I-I can’t say I’m not taken aback,” he said, “or that I’m not a bit hurt, but…I do understand where you’re coming from, keeping secrets. I know what it’s like to have a destiny.”

“It’s not a destiny,” said Jenny tiredly. “They just shoved me into it.”

“Sounds rather like my arrangement, to be honest,” said Rupert wryly, pulling Jenny fully into his arms. “But you _do_ know it isn’t your fault, yes?”

Jenny didn’t answer that. What she did say was, “I tried to tell my uncle—a few days before Buffy’s party—I tried to tell him that Angel was worth saving. I stand by that.”

“Of course you do,” said Rupert, and kissed the top of her head. “My Jenny.”

Janna had belonged to her family, to her responsibilities, to the world of blood and vengeance. But Jenny Calendar had never let herself belong to anyone before—had never been _wanted_ by anyone before—and the fierce tenderness in Rupert’s voice made her want to start crying all over again. “It’s been a really hard night,” she said in a small voice.

“Oh, love, I know,” Rupert murmured.

“And I’m gonna have to make this whole speech to the kids.”

“Not necessarily,” said Rupert. “You could always write a memo.” At Jenny’s tired laugh, he kissed her hair again, then said, “I’m glad you told me, Jenny. Finding this out from you…I’m glad things weren’t misinterpreted.”

“I still kinda think that they have been,” Jenny muttered. “You aren’t blaming me as much as you should.”

“This is _not_ your fault,” said Rupert again, with just as much conviction as he had the night before. “All right?”

“Yeah,” Jenny whispered, settling into his arms. She could agree, even if she didn’t believe him.

* * *

 

In terms of her admission, the kids’ reactions were very similar to Rupert’s, which was honestly very surprising to Jenny. Willow seemed initially upset, but relaxed as soon as it was clear that Jenny had never had any ill intent towards Angel. Xander seemed somewhat miffed that Jenny wasn’t out for blood when it came to Angel (“there's an entire  _family_ who's devoted to hating Angel's guts, and somehow they sent us the _only_ one that doesn’t?”), but not too bothered by her omissions.

Buffy’s take surprised Jenny the most.

“So, okay, let me get this straight,” she said. “You showed up to watch Angel and see if he was miserable, you spent enough time here to decide that Angel deserved to be happy, and you never even considered trying to get to him through me and Giles?”

“I mean—” began Jenny. It sounded a lot better than _faithless, disloyal, traitorous child_ when Buffy phrased it like that.

“That’s about the gist of it,” said Rupert, giving Jenny a warning look. “She is harboring an _unreasonable_ amount of guilt over the whole ordeal, Buffy, I don’t think adding onto the pile will—”

“Oh, no _way_ am I about to start in with the guilt _,_ ” said Buffy immediately. “I was there when Ms. Calendar saw her uncle, remember? I think she’s been through enough without me getting all up in her grill.” She gave Jenny a tiny, tired smile. “Like, obviously it sucks that you didn’t tell us,” she said, “but if you’d known this could happen—you would have let us know, right?”

“Right,” said Jenny, doing her best to return Buffy’s smile.

“Then that’s good enough for me,” said Buffy with finality.

Jenny tried to keep her smile on her face. “I’m glad,” she said. “Really, I am.”

It was almost entirely a lie. She had wanted them to be angry with her, as violently and viscerally as she was angry with herself. She had always looked down on Rupert, a little, for tying himself to this Council without a second thought, and here she had done the same thing with her family, getting her uncle _killed_ because of it. She could never have done the job she was sent here to do, she knew that, but if she had _questioned—_

“Ms. Calendar?” Buffy’s tentative voice cut through Jenny’s semi-spiral. “Can I ask you one thing, though?”

Rupert’s arm tightened protectively around Jenny. It frustrated her. “Yeah?” said Jenny.

Buffy hesitated, then said, “You’re…part of the family that cursed Angel with his soul, right?”

Jenny should have seen this one coming. “Yes, I am,” she said. “But Buffy, those magics are ancient and _long-_ lost. Relying on them would be…” She trailed off, helpless.

Something in Buffy’s face tightened, but the frustration didn’t seem directed at Jenny. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess I should have figured that.” With that, she turned and left the library, that same tense reserve to her that Jenny remembered from that terrible night at the cheap motel.

Jenny recognized that frustration, that guilt. She rested her head against Rupert’s shoulder, thinking of all the times she should have questioned the rules her family had given her.

* * *

 

 _He is a vengeful, murderous monster, and he deserves to suffer,_ they had said about Angelus. And yet Angel had saved Jenny’s life. He had put himself through Eyghon for a woman he knew nothing about, simply because he had the ability to help someone. He would have done that for anyone, Jenny knew, and somehow that had made her feel so incredibly lucky.

 _He will never become anything other than what he is,_ they had said about Angelus. And yet there Angel was, fighting the good fight—and, okay, it was inspired by Buffy, but Jenny didn’t think she’d be so gung-ho about fighting evil if not for Rupert. So all it really said was that Angel was in love, and that his love had made him a better person. Jenny could understand that.

 _The magics we used to curse him cannot be used again,_ they had said. And yet—

And yet—

Jenny was done adding footnotes to her family history. She was done clarifying and correcting and working around the existing text. She was writing her own rulebook, and she was going to bring back a man who deserved to live again.

* * *

 

She thought long and hard about telling Rupert and the kids about what she was planning, but ultimately decided against it. It wouldn’t do to get their hopes up, especially since the odds of Jenny actually pulling this off were pretty much insurmountable. She promised herself that she would tell them if it ever started looking like she might succeed, but until then, it would be a well-kept secret.

She had had two days of complete transparency with her boyfriend before going back to keeping things from him.

“Beloved, go to sleep,” said Rupert drowsily from next to her, draping an arm haphazardly across her lap without raising his face from the pillow. “It is _abhorrently_ early, and tomorrow is a work day—”

“You research into the early hours of the morning all the time, remember?” Jenny pointed out thinly. There was a bug in the translation software she was coding.

“Hmm,” said Rupert. “Counterpoint: I am absolutely mad about you, and I want you to be happy and healthy and well-rested.”

Despite herself, Jenny smiled. “This is important,” she said reluctantly. “It’s research stuff for the whole Angelus thing.”

“I can save you some time,” said Rupert. “He’s evil. Go to sleep.”

“Rupert—”

“ _Jenny,_ ” said Rupert, yawning, and tugged at her waist, sliding her down the bed. Jenny yelped, only barely managing to place her laptop on the nightstand before Rupert was holding her against him. “If I have to forcibly cuddle you into sleep, so be it.”

“You are a _terrible_ influence on me,” Jenny informed him, attempting to squirm her way out of his arms.

“I’m a terrible influence for getting you to take care of yourself!”

“Yes!” said Jenny, then, “No!” then, “God, I’m too tired to argue, can we just—”

“If you are too tired to argue,” Rupert persisted, “you are _definitely_ too tired to work. Go to sleep.”

“But—”

“ _Sleep,_ Jenny,” said Rupert firmly.

“I can’t sleep when Angel’s still out there!” Jenny burst out.

Rupert opened his eyes all the way, now looking at her with more concern than anything. “Jenny,” he said. “You must know that this is not your fault.”

“He killed my uncle,” said Jenny, her voice shaking, “and my uncle would not have been here if I’d been doing my fucking _job.”_

“What, keeping Angel miserable?”

“Rupert, I wasn’t doing _anything_ to help my family!”

“And is that such a bad thing?”

“Oh, like you’d get it,” Jenny scoffed, finally managing to wrest herself free of his arms.

Rupert sat up in bed. “I don’t think I do, no,” he said quietly. “You were raised by people who told you that vengeance was the only way, and you chose instead to be kind. That in no way makes you any less of a person.”

“I so don’t want to have this conversation right now,” said Jenny.

“I love you very much,” said Rupert. His voice shook. “It pains me to think that you are taking responsibility for something that couldn’t have been stopped.”

“I could have fucking _asked,_ Rupert!” Jenny shouted. “I could have _asked_ my uncle why I was here doing this _stupid_ job instead of just _blindly_ following along until Buffy and Angel got hurt! And frankly, the fact that you’re not blaming me for this one makes me think less of _you!”_ She grabbed the laptop, pulling herself clumsily out of the blankets, and all but tumbled out of bed, storming out of the room without bothering to shut the door behind her.

It was only when she reached the living room that Rupert’s words finally registered with her, at which point she sat down, heavily, on the sofa, and placed the laptop on the coffee table. _I love you very much,_ he had said. She’d been given those words before, but always…carelessly, and playfully, with no real weight behind them. Never by a man like Rupert, who deliberated over his every action—and she hadn’t even bothered to respond in kind.

She waited five minutes in the suddenly too-quiet living room, and then she got up, feeling off-balance and ungainly as she headed back into the bedroom.

Rupert was crying. It was quiet, and subtle, but Jenny could see his shoulders shaking, and he had taken off his glasses. When she entered the room, he raised his head, looking helplessly up at her. “I wish I knew how to help you,” he said shakily.

“Stop,” said Jenny, a lump in her throat. “That isn’t on you.”

“If you need space—”

“Maybe,” said Jenny before she could stop herself. All she was thinking was of her uncle, and his blood on the walls, and how that would be Rupert, next, if she wasn’t careful. Angelus was paying attention to her; hell, he might have already pieced together what she was trying to do. If she could keep Rupert out of this, then he would be safe. “Maybe I do.”

“Right,” said Rupert. “Of course. Please—please know, i-if you need anything—”

“Rupert, just go,” said Jenny, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She was fully aware of how horrible she was being to him—sweet, kind Rupert, who would take all her harsh words at face value and turn them into reasons to hate himself—but she was just so fucking _tired_ of there never being a right answer. There was a bug in her code, and her boyfriend thought she was someone worth loving, and her uncle was dead. And it was all her fault. All of it.

Rupert got up. He made no effort to reach out to her as he quietly got dressed, but he did turn back, looking at her with a kind of quiet exhaustion. “If you need _anything,_ Jenny,” he said, “just say the word, all right?” There was no recrimination in his expression.

“Can you get me my laptop before you leave?” said Jenny.

Rupert swallowed hard, eyes wet, and then he nodded.

* * *

 

With the kids, they carried on like it was business as usual. Rupert pretended that it was lingering stress from Angelus causing him to look so tired and sad, and Jenny insinuated that her still-healing scratches were the reason she was so distant, and the kids seemed to believe them. Mostly, everyone’s focus was on Buffy, and on Angel, and on how they were going to deal with both of those things, and Jenny was grateful for that. It gave her time to work on her research without any questions.

Rupert, however, seemed to be noticing that something was up. This time around, however, he also seemed to be holding to Jenny’s request for space, which somehow made her feel worse about everything. Some awful part of her had hoped that he would be just as bad at complying to her request as last time—that he would hang around like a sad puppy until she softened and warmed and turned back into that better person that came out around him.

She would fix things, she told herself. She would fix Angel, and then she would be good enough for Rupert to _really_ love her. He couldn’t love her as she was—not the woman who raked him over the coals for his past and neglected to mention her own. She had amends to make. She would fix things.

* * *

Jenny dreamed about Angelus every night.

Sometimes she dreamed that she and Rupert and Buffy arrived early to the hotel room, and she opened the door to find him in the middle of murdering her uncle. He raised his head, giving her a slow, bloody grin, and then he moved with inhuman speed to pin her to the wall, and over his shoulder, she saw Rupert and Buffy watching with vague disinterest as he sunk his fangs into her throat. The bite itself didn’t hurt—it was that her body refused to struggle, as though Eyghon was locking her limbs down all over again.

Sometimes she dreamed that she had staggered out of the hotel room and Angelus was standing by her car, only this time he grabbed her and whispered what he had done to the pretty little thing who got him cursed with a soul. Jenny could never remember what he had said, when she woke up, but it always left her nauseous and shaken. Those were the nights she would stay up working on the curse, just so she wouldn’t have to sleep.

Sometimes she dreamed that he killed Rupert. After those dreams, she always called the library, hanging up without a word when she heard Rupert’s voice. She knew it would be better if he was there to hold her through those, but the nightmares only solidified her certainty that she needed to keep her distance. As long as Rupert wasn’t involved in this, he was safe. Angelus wouldn’t be happy if he knew what she was doing.

The night before it all went to hell, she dreamed a new dream: Angelus was sitting next to her in a field full of blood-red roses. “Seems nice and poetic,” he said, “me killing one of you and getting punished for it. And now I’m going to have to kill another to keep myself free.”

“I’m not _one of_ anything,” said Jenny, a mixture of insulted and hurt. “I’m Jenny.”

“You’re not anything but Janna,” said Angelus, giving her a slow, amused smile. “Why would that change with your name?”

Jenny shook her head. Somehow, this cut worse than all the other dreams before. “No,” she said. “No, I-I’m _me,_ I’m not—I’m not some puzzle piece in somebody else’s story, Angelus, and I’m _not_ tied to you—”

Angelus raised his hand to Jenny’s cheek, the one he had cut, the one that had scarred. She flinched back, terrified, and he grabbed her waist very hard, pulling her very close. “You are _nothing_ ,” he said. “Your man knows it, and the Slayer knows it, and you know it. All you can do is be of use to him, to her, to _me—_ ”

Jenny woke up feeling phantom bruises on her waist and hips. Compulsively, she pulled off her shirt, then turned on the light, hands fluttering down her sides just to make sure there were no marks. She saw nothing, but—but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been _real,_ or that Angelus hadn't been right.

The phone rang. Jenny gasped, startled, then grabbed it from her nightstand, taking a shuddering breath to steady herself. “What?” she said.

 _“I can’t call Giles,”_ said Buffy. Her voice was trembling. _“Angelus sent me roses, and I don’t know what to do.”_

* * *

 

Buffy was on the front porch when Jenny drove up. She was wearing a tank top emblazoned with a cartoon chick and the words _hug me_ , and she was clutching a stuffed pig, and she looked very, very small. Jenny supposed that Rupert could sometimes forget that the Vampire Slayer was still mostly a child, but she herself had some trouble with it. “Hey,” she said, and sat down next to Buffy on the porch swing. “So. Why me and not Rupert? Not that I mind, but this seems more a Watcher-Slayer thing.”

Buffy exhaled. Then she said, “You still have those scars on your face. I think you’d get it a little more than he would.”

Her words affected Jenny more than she cared to let on. She draped an arm over Buffy’s shoulder, squeezing her close. Then she said, “So not the best Valentine’s Day, then?”

Buffy laughed wetly. “No,” she said. “I was gonna make him blood popsicles from the butcher’s and strong-arm him into watching some sappy rom-com.” She sniffled. “And now I’m getting creepy stalker roses from some demon in my boyfriend’s body.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jenny softly.

“Why should you be sorry?” said Buffy, and shrugged, staring almost blankly ahead. “I mean, I went ahead and slept with him, right? One true moment of happiness. That was me.”

“You didn’t know—”

“Did  _you?”_

Jenny didn’t answer. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to be smothered with more it’s-not-your-faults. “I am so tired,” she said instead, staring out across the street. “I haven’t been sleeping well ever since—”

“Me either,” said Buffy. She swallowed, hard. “I keep on having dreams where he kills you.”

Jenny’s heart caught. “What?”

“Giles told me what happened,” said Buffy, and now she really did sound near tears. “He said Angelus had you in—in some kind of _thrall,_ and you were just staring at him, and when he saw Giles, he just kinda clawed at your face and ran. And then you fell back and he said you were just completely a mess for the rest of the night—”

“It didn’t happen like that,” said Jenny quietly.

Buffy stopped, looking up at Jenny, eyes expectant and almost hopeful. “How did it happen?” she asked.

Jenny hesitated. “Angelus called me _Janna,_ ” he said. “My birth name. I think he must have tortured it out of my uncle.” The memories of the moment were hazy, and dredging them back up took effort; it took her another moment to continue. “He told me that my uncle said they should have picked someone braver for—to—” She stopped. This didn’t feel like something that Buffy should know.

“You know he’s just making stuff up, right?” said Buffy, words spoken with the confidence of a girl who had grown up in a loving home. “Your uncle loved you.”

Jenny laughed, a sharp, short, involuntary sound that made Buffy startle away from her. “Sorry!” she said, pressing a hand to her mouth. Her smile was fiercely plastic. “Sorry, I—I’m sorry, I—”

“Ms.  _Calendar,_ ” said Buffy, her voice breaking, and she reached up and pulled Jenny into a hug. And all of a sudden, Jenny really was crying, because she had woken up so _scared,_ and she still felt so _useless,_ but here was this tiny little girl going through ten times what she had, strong enough to hug her tight.

Buffy was crying too. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “This is all my fault.”

“Shh,” Jenny whispered, pulling back to smooth down Buffy’s hair. “No. No, okay? You loved him.”

“It’s all my _fault,_ ” Buffy wailed.

“Never,” said Jenny shakily.

“I have dreams where he kills you,” Buffy continued, scrubbing roughly at her face. “Dreams where he kills you and then Giles and then Willow and he’s just _laughing_ at me—”

“It’s okay,” Jenny murmured. “It’s okay. I’ve got this.”

Buffy raised her head, giving Jenny a wry, miserable smile. “Yeah,” she said. “See, the only way we solve this is by killing him, a-and I don’t think I’m _ever_ going to be okay after that.”

Fuck it. Maybe Jenny couldn’t tell Rupert just yet, but Buffy deserved to have some glimmer of hope for at least a little while. “There are other ways to fix this, Buffy,” she said, sniffling. She’d never really been much of a crier. “I promise there are ways to get him back.”

Buffy stared, smile flickering. “You said—”

“I said it isn’t possible,” Jenny agreed. “And honestly, I still kinda believe it, but that isn’t stopping me from trying to find a way. Okay?”

Without a word, Buffy hugged Jenny again, burying her face in the crook of Jenny’s neck. Jenny hugged Buffy back, and didn’t see Angelus stepping neatly into the shadows.

* * *

 

That day, Xander cast a love spell, and there was once again a parasite in Jenny’s head. This time, it was worse. This time, the feelings had _felt_ like her own, and she had lost all sense of reason in a crazed quest for a boy half her age. Obviously she hadn’t been harboring any subconscious attraction to _any_ of her students, but having something rewire her mind, _again,_ was still jarring and fucked-up enough to knock her determined mission sideways. Granted, it didn’t at all help that she was running on about two hours of sleep and an unholy amount of coffee, but Jenny had been mistyping the same line of code for fifteen minutes and she felt very ready to completely break down.

There was a knock on her classroom door, which had been left ajar.

“ _WHAT,”_ shouted Jenny, who was in absolutely _no_ mood to deal with _anybody_ right now.

“We need to talk,” said Rupert without preamble, stepping into her classroom. “Jenny, Buffy mentioned something about you trying to get Angel back—”

“Please leave before I murder you and make it look like it was Angelus,” said Jenny, not taking her eyes off the keyboard. Her head was swimming with rose gardens and bruises and blood on the walls. Also, the keyboard was getting a little swirly.

“Jenny,” said Rupert. Something in his voice had changed since that night in her bedroom. “Jenny, you’re—if what she said is true, I fear you’ll work yourself to death before you admit it might not be possible. Please, I—”

“Did I not say I needed space?” said Jenny, and hit the wrong button on the keyboard, deleting two actually working lines of code. “ _Damn_ it!”

“I am happy to give you space when you need it,” said Rupert firmly. “If you are using that space to make self-destructive choices, I don’t think I can give it to you anymore.”

“Is me not loving you back a _self-destructive choice?”_ snapped Jenny, a desperate panic rising in her chest. She didn’t care what she said to him, she just had to get him _out_ of here—

“No, it isn’t,” said Rupert calmly. “Actually, you not loving me is quite wise. Staying late in a public building on minimal sleep, however, _certainly_ qualifies as a self-destructive—oh, no, _Jenny_ —”

It hadn’t _just_ been that Rupert had said that loving him wasn’t a wise decision, it had been the _way_ he had said it: completely calm and reasoned, as though him not deserving love was some kind of objective fact. “Don’t _say_ that,” Jenny sobbed out, pressing her fingers to her eyes in some awkward, desperate attempt to stop herself from crying. It only barely worked. “Don’t—don’t you _dare_ talk about me pushing you away like you think it’s something I _should_ do to you, like you think—like you think it’s something you _deserve—_ ”

Rupert’s eyes widened. Slowly, he knelt down in front of her chair, tugging Jenny’s hands away from her eyes. Slowly, he said, “Am I right in assuming that your need for space isn’t truly what has you pushing me away?”

“I just want you safe,” Jenny whispered. “Away from me means maybe you’ll be safe.”

Rupert exhaled, then leaned in, resting his forehead against Jenny’s. “I’m in danger every day,” he said softly. “That’s the life I chose.”

“You’re so—” Jenny raised a trembling hand to his face. “I’d never come back from losing you,” she said, a lump in her throat.

And  _bless_ her gentle librarian for reading between the lines. Rupert’s expression was as stunned and tender as if Jenny had actually said _I love you._ “So this is why you told me to go?” he whispered. “You _ridiculous_ woman,” and he kissed her forehead, then her nose, then, finally, her mouth, sending a flurry of butterflies through Jenny’s chest. He only barely pulled away. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “It really is all right.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said Angelus, sounding almost amused.

Rupert stopped, then stood. Jenny, still dazed from comforting kisses, stared stupidly at Angelus, half-convinced this was one of her dreams. “You should know I’d die before I let you touch her,” Rupert said to Angelus, perfectly level.

“That,” said Angelus, “can be arranged—”

 _No,_ thought Jenny, _no no no no no—_

But Angelus lunged, knocking Rupert out of the way, and suddenly Jenny was lifted from her chair and slammed up against the chalkboard, Angelus’s face too close to hers. Strange as it was, she couldn’t help but feel a jolt of relief that it wasn’t Rupert he was going after. “You look nothing like her,” Angelus whispered, fingers digging into her waist, fingers tangling in her hair—god, his hands were everywhere, somehow, leaving bruises that Jenny thought might never go away. “It would have been a little more fun if you did, you know—” And then he gasped.

And then he was dust.

Rupert was standing there, eyes devoid of any emotion at all, the wooden ruler in his hand thrust forward and now only inches from Jenny.

With her childhood nightmare come to life, Jenny had already steeled herself for her death. It took her a good few seconds to understand what Rupert had done, and why, and then a cold, hopeless feeling swept slowly over her. “No,” she whispered, dropping to her knees in the ashes. “No. No, Rupert, no, I was going to—I was going to _save_ him—”

“He’s not worth saving,” said Rupert, letting the ruler clatter to the floor. He didn’t seem able to look at her. “Are you hurt?”

Jenny let her head fall back against the wall, only barely noticing the dull ache from the impact. “I was going to save him,” she said again, unable to think past that. She was going to save Angel. She had been about to save Angel. She should have saved Angel.

Rupert swallowed, hard, then knelt down in front of her. “I’m sorry,” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “I know how hard you must have been working on this—”

His words faded in and out, as though Jenny was very deep underwater. Perhaps it was the combination of shock and sleep deprivation, but suddenly, her vision was blurring around the edges, then fading out into black.

* * *

She woke up in Rupert’s bed, wearing one of his pajama shirts, her clothing folded neatly on top of his dresser. It was still dark out, and Rupert was clattering around downstairs, making tea. The cozy warmth of the bedside lamp, the covers around her—Jenny felt warm, and loved, and relieved.

It must have been a nightmare, she thought.

Her mind refused to supply what the nightmare was about; she decided to put it aside. No use dredging up something scary if it hadn’t been real. She got up, stretching languidly, and headed downstairs; the clattering stopped as she entered the kitchen. “Hi,” she said tentatively.

Rupert looked tired and drawn, and that didn’t change when he saw her. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Well rested,” said Jenny, and yawned, rubbing at her eyes. “I’m missing a few bits and pieces, huh?”

“You do seem…oddly calm,” said Rupert.

“Is there something for me not to be calm about?” Jenny asked.

Rupert just kind of looked at her, eyes unfocused. Then he said, “Jenny, what do you remember?”

“Nothing,” said Jenny, before she even realized she was saying it. She winced, tried to correct herself, and realized that there was an artful blank in her memory. “Um. Nothing,” she said again. “I think we—I don’t remember, Rupert, I’m sorry. My head is kind of a mess right now.”

“Course,” said Rupert. “Trauma, it, it manifests—”

Jenny’s stomach jolted at _trauma_ , and she felt like she should know why. “I don’t know if I’d call it _trauma,_ ” she said, forcing a laugh. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me. Are you making tea?”

“A few cups,” said Rupert, and very un-subtly nudged a nearly empty bottle of scotch out of Jenny’s line of vision.

 _Hold_ on. “Are you drinking?” said Jenny slowly, trying to keep her tone easy-breezy.

“Drunk,” said Rupert. “Thoroughly.”

Jenny took another look at Rupert. He did still look tired, but now that she was looking closer, she saw that something in his eyes was slightly dulled. “Aren’t you usually a happy drunk?” she asked, trying to smile.

“Times change,” said Rupert. Apparently deciding that there was no longer any point in subterfuge, he tugged the scotch out from behind a stack of plates and sent them all crashing to the ground.

Jenny jumped. “Jesus!” she said, hopping up onto the counter and away from the broken plates. “You could at least be a little more careful—”

“Jenny, you need to remember,” said Rupert. “You aren’t doing either of us any favors, pretending you don’t know what I’ve done.”

“What you’ve—” The words sent a small shock of recognition through Jenny’s system, followed by a deep, terrible feeling that she didn’t appreciate at all. “Give me that scotch,” she said. “If you’re self-medicating, I think I’m going to join in.”

“I cannot encourage unhealthy coping mechanisms,” said Rupert, and downed the rest of the scotch in one go.

“God, you are so _belligerent_ when you’re drunk,” said Jenny waspishly, leaning against the wall. “Are you gonna clean up those plates, or should I?” Her sides felt sore, and her face—she reached up to touch it, and found that it stung. There were deep grooves in her cheek, but that felt like scar tissue, not—

“I should like not to cope with these things right now,” said Rupert, staring up at Jenny with liquid eyes. “I should like not to remember—”

“Not remembering is overrated,” said Jenny.

“You still haven’t asked me what happened,” said Rupert matter-of-factly. “This conversation’s been going on long enough for you to ask, but you haven’t. I think you and I both know that if you wanted to remember, you would.”

Jenny didn’t want to remember. The thought hit her out of nowhere. She didn’t want to remember, because remembering would open up doors that couldn’t be closed and she didn’t didn’t _didn’t_ want to remember—

She grabbed the front of Rupert’s shirt, kissing him very hard. She focused on the way he tasted, which was mostly alcohol, and the familiar way his mouth moved against hers, because _this_ she would never forget in a _thousand_ years. She draped her arms around his neck as he began to kiss her back, both of them ignoring the bottle of scotch as it shattered along with the dishes, and guided his hands to the buttons of her pajama shirt.

Rupert’s hands fumbled with the buttons, but he pulled away to look at her as he did it. “I know what you’re doing,” he informed her. “You’re trying to self-medicate through sex. I hope you realize I do _not_ condone this course of action—” He finished with the shirt, sliding it down Jenny’s shoulders and throwing it in the general direction of the living room. “ _God_ you’re beautiful,” he said, looking at her as though she was the only bright light in the world.

There was a clawing feeling in Jenny’s chest, but when Rupert touched her, it let up just a little. Wanting to alleviate that feeling just a little more, she leaned down to place his hands on her hips, and—

Both of them saw the bruises at the same time. Finger-shaped bruises, purpling around her hips and waist, and his hands really _had_ grabbed her hard enough, hard enough to—

“Jenny,” said Rupert, a panicked note to his voice.

Angelus. Angel. Angelus was Angel was _dead,_ and Rupert had _killed him,_ and Jenny had almost been—who knows what would have happened to Jenny, if Rupert hadn’t been there? Angelus had done a lot of things to pretty women. It was kind of what he was known for. Sometimes he chased them and snapped their necks, just for fun. Sometimes he chased them and _caught_ them and pushed them up against a chalkboard—

Rupert’s head dropped, and he began to cry in a way Jenny had never seen him cry before. He pulled himself away, broken glass crunching under his feet, but he didn’t leave the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “Jenny, I’m so sorry.”

Jenny stared at him. She didn’t know what she could possibly say.

The phone rang. Rupert raised his head, staring in its direction with a vaguely horrified expression.

“I got it,” said Jenny numbly, and slid down from the counter, doing her best to avoid the broken dishware. She wasn’t super sure how well it worked. Picking up the phone, she said, “Hey.”

 _“Ms. Calendar?”_ Buffy’s voice was small and unsteady. _“I had—a dream. A, a Slayer dream, about—Angel. Angelus. I don’t know who.”_

“Buffy, this isn’t a good time,” said Jenny.

“Buffy?” called Rupert from the kitchen, his voice still thick with tears. “Tell her—Jenny, tell her I’m _sorry—_ ”

Jenny had to get Buffy off the line. “Buffy, whatever it is, we’re working on a way to fix it,” she said. “Okay? I promise. Whatever it is—”

 _“I dreamed that Giles killed Angel,”_ said Buffy. She sounded near tears herself. _“In the school. Because you were in danger, and it was the only way to save you—_ ”

“Should have never—never, never let her get mixed up in this,” Rupert was mumbling to no one in particular. “Such a gentle girl, and I killed the man she _loves—_ ”

“WE’RE GOING TO FIX IT,” Jenny screamed at the top of her lungs, and hung up the phone so hard that she was pretty sure she broke it. Still only in her underwear and half-unfastened bra, she stormed over to Rupert’s bookshelf, pulling out books at random, looking for anything at all that might fix the mess she’d made. Demonology—that was just reference. Encyclopedia—reference again. “How many _fucking_ reference books do you have in here?” she shrieked.

“Jenny I’m sorry I’m _sorry_ —”

“Shut  _up!”_ Jenny turned on him as he entered the room, feeling like she might shatter to bits. “You are _not_ sorry, because you did _nothing_ wrong, because _none_ of this is your goddamn fault! Do you hear me, Rupert? You couldn’t have known this stuff might happen to me, and you did _everything_ you could to stop it from happening, and you kept things from getting _worse!_ And you know what, if you want to go on a bender, fine! I am  _not_ going to stop you, because frankly, you are _entitled_ to one! Your sacred duty is a hot mess, your Slayer’s in love with the guy trying to kill everybody, and _you’re_ in love with the idiot who’s the reason that guy is trying to kill everybody in the first place! So if you—”

“It’s not your fault either, Jenny,” said Rupert, and all of a sudden, he didn’t look quite so helplessly miserable. “And I am getting _sick_ of you raking yourself through the coals for a thing you didn’t do. You didn’t know a _thing_ about Angel’s soul, you didn’t even have enough information to know you _should_ ask _,_ and you would not be the woman I love if you cared enough about a mission of vengeance to ask clarifying questions in the first place! So as long as the woman I love enough to die for is throwing herself _recklessly_ into the line of fire, _I_ am going to be as miserable as I damn well please!”

They stared at each other, both of them breathing hard. Somehow, they’d crossed the room to the point that they were standing right in front of each other.

“Rupert, I love you too,” said Jenny helplessly, a lump in her throat.

Rupert reeled back as though she had hit him; she suspected that _some_ of that was the scotch. “Do you mean that?” he said, sounding very much like he might start crying again.

“God,” said Jenny,  _“yeah,”_ and stepped into his arms, cuddling into his chest. He did mostly smell like alcohol, still, but holding him like this, she could also smell the old books and clean linen and what was probably vampire dust. “I do,” she whispered. “I love you. So much.”

“Jenny,” Rupert mumbled, and pressed a clumsy kiss to her hair. “My—my _heart_ is—you’re always—”

“Save the sweet-talking for when you’re not drunk off your ass,” said Jenny, pulling back a little to look up at him. She reached up, curling her hands around the front of his shirt. “It really isn’t my fault, huh?” she said.

“No,” said Rupert. His eyes were wet. “I cannot bear watching you think that it is.”

Jenny swallowed. Then she said, “I just—I want it to be my fault, Rupert, because then I get to be the one who has to fix it. You know? If I broke it, I can definitely fix it again. But if it was just always going to break—”

“—then you and Buffy and I were all just collateral,” Rupert finished. “And we might hurt even more, now.”

“Oh, god,” said Jenny. “I just screamed at Buffy on the phone. I owe that girl a _thousand_ apologies—”

As if on cue, the phone began to ring again. This time, Rupert let go of Jenny, crossing the room to the phone. At her look, he said, “I’m sobering up, all right?”

“You are _so_ not,” said Jenny.

“Well, I have at least reached the point where I can fake sobriety rather well,” said Rupert, and reached for the stretch of empty wall instead of the phone. Jenny snickered. He gave her a withering look as he finally managed to pick the receiver up. “Buffy? Yes.” He listened. “Your dream did come to pass,” he said. “I’m sorry. Yes, Jenny’s—yes. She’s very shaken up, and she’s quite sorry she yelled at you. I’m doing my best to take care of her.” Another pause. “Thank you,” he said shakily, and hung up the phone.

“What did she say?” said Jenny.

Rupert looked up at her, giving her a small, miserable smile. “That it wasn’t my fault,” he said.

Jenny moved towards him and took his hands in hers. “She’s right, then,” she said. “You saved my life.”

“It wasn’t quite as noble as that,” said Rupert wryly.

“So you were just saving me to get my attention?” said Jenny sardonically.

Rupert shook his head, looking down at their joined hands. “No,” he said unsteadily. “No, I—I saw him slam you against that chalkboard, and I saw the way your head snapped back, and—and I couldn’t see him, but I could see you, and you looked—” His voice broke, his hands tightening around Jenny’s. “I thought I was going to watch you die,” he said. “For one horrible moment, I _knew_ I was going to watch you die, and I couldn’t—I _couldn’t_ —” He took a shaking breath. “I’ve rarely been that angry in my life,” he said. “There you were, risking your life in an attempt to save his—and there _he_ was, ready to _kill_ you for daring to be kind and good and _brave._ ”

Jenny gave him a small, wobbly smile. She didn’t feel quite like challenging those notions at the moment—not when hearing them spoken with such surety made her feel like she was wrapped in a warm blanket. “So you killed him before he could kill me,” she said.

“I didn’t even hesitate,” said Rupert, and tugged one of his hands free of hers to gently caress her cheek. “I’m not—I’m not _proud_ of my instincts, I—”

“But you saved my life,” said Jenny, “because you love me.” She stepped back into his arms. “And honestly, Rupert, I’m pretty glad you did.”

“You didn’t seem too fond of the concept when it meant killing Angel,” said Rupert quietly.

“I think I’m trying to focus on the good parts of this,” said Jenny, running her hands down his chest. “Me, alive. You, alive. Us…” She trailed off. “In love,” she said, and couldn’t help the small, incredulous laugh at that.

A soft, goofy grin spread across Rupert’s face. “In love,” he echoed all but wondrously.

“You really do turn on a dime when you’re drunk,” Jenny teased gently.

“I’m not—” Off Jenny’s look, Rupert sighed, then said, “ _as_ drunk. Currently.”

Jenny draped her arms around his neck. “I kinda want to save the hard stuff for later, okay?” she said. “I know things are going to get messy. I think they already have. But I’m honestly _so_ tired, and this is the first time in pretty much ever that I’m going to get to sleep with you and know there’s nothing we’re keeping from each other.”

“You  _do_ mean actual sleeping, yes?” said Rupert somewhat anxiously. “Because I really am too exhausted for anything else.”

“You sure about that?”

“Well,” Rupert’s eyes darted down to her mouth, “not—not _anything_ else. Just that there are certain, certain limits, and parameters, and, and Jenny _may_ I kiss you properly? I _have_ missed you—”

Jenny stood on tiptoe and kissed _him,_ a kiss that was meant to be short and turned into something long. Rupert kissed her back with that tender intensity that she’d _really_ missed, and god, this kiss…was nowhere near an escape, or a delay, or a distraction. This kiss was exactly where she wanted to be.

* * *

 

She took him up the stairs and put him to bed, changing into the extra t-shirt and shorts she always kept on hand at his place. She kissed him for an hour and read him dictionary definitions for thirty minutes after that—mostly because she knew he probably needed to hear the sound of her voice, and feel the physicality of her stroking his hair. She wanted to keep reminding him that she was alive. She didn’t have to imagine how much the concept of losing somebody you loved could really mess you up.

But it was also a little bit because she’d _missed_ him. She’d missed watching the way he relaxed around her, settling into her arms like he was finally home. She’d missed the way he smiled, soft and slow, when her fingers grazed his cheek. As much as this moment of respite was for Rupert, it was also for Jenny; this was, after all, the moment she had always been working towards. She had wanted to be someone he really loved.

She had always been someone he really loved. Somehow, that was _so_ much better than earning his love along with Angel’s soul.

When he was finally drifting off, she settled herself back into the pillows, feeling strangely…she didn’t know what to call the _absence_ of guilt, but that was what she was feeling. She knew she had tried her hardest, she _knew_ she couldn’t have tried any harder, and things had still spiraled so completely beyond her control, in ways she couldn’t have ever predicted.

And Jenny could and would push on in her crusade—this world was too big and crazy for there _not_ to be a way she could bring Angel back—but she wasn’t going to shut Rupert and the kids out in the process of doing it, and she _certainly_ wasn’t going to put her own life on the line anymore. Not when there were people who loved her like Rupert did.

“I am done blaming myself, I think,” she said, liking the way the words sounded, and slid down the pillows to nestle herself against the man she loved.


	2. i'm taking flame over burning out (part two)

“You’re not serious,” said Lilah incredulously.

Jenny met Lilah’s gaze with the same stubbornly bright eyes from years ago, back in college, when Lilah was still deciding between law school and selling her soul to a demon for profit. She had, of course, eventually gone with an option that allowed her both: who said that the modern woman couldn’t have her cake and eat it too? Jenny, however, had always been one of single-minded focus and optimistic dedication, something that Lilah had expected to dissipate and fade over the years. Yet here Jenny was, the same idealistic little thing she’d always been.

If Lilah was the sentimental type, she might be feeling a little mushy right now. But she wasn’t, so she said again, “You’re not _serious._ ”

“You know me,” said Jenny. “You know I am.”

“And you know _me,_ ” said Lilah, pointedly, “well enough to know that I’m going to do my best to talk you out of this—this _idiocy._ Jenny, the kind of stuff you’re trying to do—it just isn’t _possible._ ”

“So we live in a world of magic and demons and vampire slayers, and me bringing one guy back isn’t possible?” Jenny persisted. “Lilah, your entire _job_ is making the impossible reachable for people who pay enough money—”

“I don’t see you writing me a check,” said Lilah.

“ _Lilah—_ ”

“My job,” said Lilah, “is to work for the side of evil, and to do what serves their interests. Bringing back a warrior of good is pretty much the exact opposite of that.” She fixed Jenny with a firm stare. “And I _do_ know you, Jenny. Making a deal with the devil isn’t your style.”

“Yes,” said Jenny, unfazed, “but making a deal with my ex-girlfriend definitely is.”

Lilah pressed her lips together, exasperated. She had an actually important meeting in fifteen minutes, and here Jenny was, with that annoyingly mulish look on her face that meant she would _not_ leave until she got what she wanted. “I’m not going to help you with this,” she said flatly. “Call it a lingering affection, but I don’t want you owing Wolfram and Hart a favor. You were always better than that.”

Jenny stared at her for a long moment, and then her head dropped. “God,” she said. “Fuck. Rupert would _kill_ me if he knew I was doing this.”

Lilah didn’t bother to pretend not to know who _Rupert_ was. It was her job to know everything about the major supernatural players, and the fact that her college girlfriend was now a pretty serious weak spot to the active Watcher of the Vampire Slayer—well, the Senior Partners were keeping tabs on the both of them. Just in case they needed the Watcher in their pocket.

Call her sentimental, but Lilah hoped very strongly that things wouldn’t come to that. “Yeah, I think he would,” she said. “Frankly, I think he _should._ Your death is gonna be messy and painful if you’re looking to bargain with the Senior Partners.”

“Glad to see _you’re_ still a drama queen,” said Jenny somewhat petulantly to the table.

Clearly, Lilah thought, this wasn’t going to work. Maybe Jenny really was going to tone down her efforts to find herself an answer, but she definitely wasn’t going to stop  _looking_ for one. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. You know what?” She grabbed a pad and pen, scribbled down an address, and ripped off the top sheet of paper, folding it neatly before handing it to Jenny. “Go there,” she said. “Lorne’s pretty good at keeping people out of trouble.”

Jenny raised her head and gave Lilah a small, tired smile. “Thank you,” she said, her voice going all soft in that way that had always made Lilah feel—well.

“You should leave,” said Lilah, and pretended to be looking out the window. “I’ve wasted enough time with you already.”

She heard the scrape of Jenny’s chair against the floor, and then the _click-clack_ of Jenny’s heels on tile, and then—Jenny was leaning down, tucking Lilah’s hair behind her ear. “I mean it,” said Jenny, who still smelled soft and floral, who still had that glint of hard steel in her eyes. She didn’t drop her hand from Lilah’s face. “Thank you. You know how grateful I am, and you _know_ what I’ll do if this is some kind of a trap.”

Lilah smirked. “There’s my girl,” she said, and Jenny kissed her. This felt like a decent goodbye, Lilah thought—better than their phone-call breakup when their relationship hadn’t survived the distance. She liked the feeling of a chapter in her life being closed for good. “Your Rupert’s a lucky guy,” she said when they pulled apart.

“He is, isn’t he?” said Jenny, letting her hand drop. “It’ll be good to see him again once all this is done.”

* * *

Jenny had left Sunnydale two weeks into the research phase of Operation Get Angel Back. Rupert’s connections at the Council had flat-out refused to help him resurrect an age-old vampire, saying that their mission was much too risky to waste resources on and a waste of time besides. The school library’s resources only went so far (despite Rupert’s relatively futile attempts to prove otherwise), and the Internet didn’t have a whole lot available when it came to restoring and resurrecting vampires with their souls intact, so Jenny had gone to Lilah.

Which, while definitely not a smart move, had still provided her with an address and some closure. All in all, Jenny thought, not entirely a failure, and she told Rupert as such when she called him from her hotel room that night.

 _“Frankly, Jenny, I’m just glad she didn’t decide to kill you,”_ said Rupert, who sounded a mixture of annoyed, worried, and proud all at the same time. _“The Senior Partners aren’t to be trifled with. I do wish you’d told me that you were planning to talk to Lilah Morgan of all people—”_

“Yeah, well, if I’d told you, you would have stopped me, and we’d be an address short of answers,” Jenny pointed out. “Look, I checked out the address she gave me with all my friends involved in the LA magic scene, and they all say the same thing. Caritas is a safe haven, and Lorne’s specialty is helping out people who need answers.”

 _“This seems rather convenient,”_ said Rupert doubtfully. _“Are you sure there isn’t a loophole?”_

“Knowing Lilah, there are probably at least three,” said Jenny, unable to keep the touch of affection out of her voice.

 _“Jenny—_ ”

“Rupert,” said Jenny. “I am a big girl, and I can take care of myself.”

 _“Yes, because you did such a sparkling job of that last time around,”_ said Rupert somewhat thinly.

Jenny felt her slight smile dissipate. “Low blow,” she said.

 _“Jenny, I-I_ worry  _about you,”_ Rupert persisted, his voice softening.  _“In the pursuit of your goals, you tend to lose sight of the risks you’re taking with your own personal safety. Please don’t mistake my love and concern for a lack of faith in you.”_

The fact that Jenny had somehow stumbled into an actual, adult relationship with somebody who loved her very much was something she was _still_ having trouble understanding. “Yeah, I love you too,” she said, leaning back against the headboard and directing an extremely sappy grin at the minibar. “And I really am gonna be careful. I’ve got a lot in my life worth coming home to.”

 _“Let me know if ever you need a reminder,”_ said Rupert in a low, _unfairly_ sexy murmur.

Jenny squirmed (there was _some_ irony in that, she thought), then said, as frankly and casually as she could, “So tell me how you’d _remind_ me if you were here right now.”

At which point the night took a turn that was very much not relevant to Jenny’s search for answers, but _very_ much enjoyed by both Jenny and Rupert regardless.

* * *

The night had been a sort of calm before the storm, Jenny thought, letting Rupert’s voice wash over her, letting love and pleasure distract her from what she was in LA to do. She woke up the next morning with an anxious hum in her chest, half-afraid that Caritas would prove as fruitless as all the other avenues she and Rupert had tried. He was putting his heart on the line for her, she knew, letting her trek out into dangerous waters on her own; she wanted to make sure his worry over her wasn’t wasted.

Wait. No. Poorly phrased. She wanted to come home with something that made his worrying _worth_ it. She wanted to come home with Angel, and watch Rupert smile, soft and gorgeous. She wanted to bring joy back to Sunnydale, and hope back to Buffy, and happiness back to Rupert.

She entered Caritas and—

Strange as it was, the feeling in Jenny’s chest softened into a sense of comforting familiarity. This wasn’t an austere den of mystical knowledge, and it certainly wasn’t a too-polished law firm with lawyers that looked at her like they were already planning how to sacrifice her to a demon or two. This was a glitzy, slightly cheesy karaoke bar, shimmering with glitter and brimming with song, and Jenny _liked_ it.

A green-skinned, red-horned demon crossed the room, wearing a brightly colored, artfully tailored suit that made Jenny smile. Something about him exuded a welcoming warmth. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember seeing _you_ here before,” he flirted, giving her a smile that was more friendly than amorous.

“I’m pretty hard to miss,” Jenny agreed, grinning, and tossing her hair a little just for effect. She always appreciated a good flirt.

The demon _beamed._ “I like this one,” he announced to the room at large, clapping Jenny’s shoulder. “So are you here to sing?”

Jenny winced. “Oh, god, I wouldn’t want to subject you to _that.”_

“You’re here looking for answers, aren’t you?” said the demon. “I’m the kinda guy who picks up on the questions better through song.”

Jenny blinked.

“I’m Lorne,” he clarified. “I’m an empath demon.”

 _“Oh,_ ” said Jenny. “Okay.” She made a face. “So I really _am_ going to have to sing, huh?”

“Just a few bars,” said Lorne, looking amused. Jenny figured she probably wasn’t the first person to not really be into the concept of sober karaoke. “Nothing fancy if you aren’t feeling up to it.”

Jenny considered. Then, partially because she did _not_ feel like singing a broody, melodramatic ballad when she had enough broody, melodramatic stuff going on in her life as it was, and partially as a tribute to Buffy, she sang a particularly peppy Spice Girls song right up through the second verse.

Lorne’s face had changed by the time she was done. “Boy,” he said. “There’s, uh, kind of a lot to unpack there. Do you want to sit down?”

Jenny laughed a little tiredly. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I’d—I’d like that.”

Lorne led her over to a smaller, more secluded booth, motioning one of the demons over as soon as Jenny had sat down. “Two martinis,” he informed the demon, then turned to Jenny. “So. You’re chasing an impossible dream, huh?”

“A little bit,” said Jenny. Her smile wobbled. “I’m trying to right a wrong—”

“How many times,” said Lorne, “are you gonna have to hear _it’s not your fault_ before you believe it? You got a raw deal, cookie. That doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Jenny exhaled, knocking back the martini almost as soon as it was placed in front of her, and staring up at the ceiling for good measure. “How much did you get from my song?” she said.

“Enough,” said Lorne.

“But how _much?”_

Lorne considered. Then he said, “What don’t you think I know?”

The question made Jenny feel irrationally indignant. “I don’t think you know the specifics,” she began.

“So spill,” said Lorne, looking steadily at her over the rim of his own martini.

Jenny tried to meet his gaze, and couldn’t. She wrung her hands, focusing in on her chipped nail polish and thinking, inanely, that she should have had Rupert touch it up before leaving for LA. “My boyfriend’s always been better at this stuff,” she found herself saying. “He’s good at big-picture thinking. Has to be, or the whole world would fall apart.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“Watcher,” said Jenny. “To the Vampire Slayer.”

Lorne whistled. “You’re the Watcher’s girl?” he said. “The one he killed Angelus for?” And then Jenny _did_ look up, and saw that Lorne had the expression of someone who had solved a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle in two minutes. _Almost_ too stunned to be smug about it. “Oh, sweetie,” he said, reaching across the table and tugging one of Jenny’s hands free. “Jenny _Calendar,_ aren’t you?”

The subtext of the question, paired with Lorne’s gentle eyes, hit Jenny where it hurt. “Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “Yeah, she—god, I _want_ to be Jenny Calendar. This whole mess is all Janna’s fault, and…I would give anything for it not to be.”

“Angelus had a soul, up till a month or two ago,” said Lorne, slow and careful. “He was in love when he lost it.”

“I was supposed to make sure he was suffering,” said Jenny, and sniffled. “I didn’t know why. I didn’t _ask_ why. My family said it was important, so I showed up in Sunnydale to watch him, but I…” She trailed off, looking desperately at Lorne. “He’s a good man,” she said. “He was _trying_ so hard to be a good man. What kind of world makes good men suffer like that?”

Lorne squeezed Jenny’s hand.

“I was trying to give Angel his soul back,” said Jenny. “I found the ritual. I finished piecing it together—” She swallowed. “Rupert killed him a week before I found his cure,” she said. “Angelus tried to—I don’t honestly know what Angelus would have done to me if it had just been him and me in that room.” She didn’t like admitting that. “But Rupert was there, and he—he just—”

“You know none of that was your fault,” said Lorne.

Jenny laughed wetly. “Some of it was,” she said. “I shouldn’t have stayed late. I shouldn’t have forgotten that Angelus is a clever bastard with a whole lot of assets to tell him who’s doing what in Sunnydale. I shouldn’t have—”

“Let’s take the spotlight off the _shouldn’t haves_ and focus on what comes next,” said Lorne. “What’s your long-term plan for all this?”

“I don’t know,” said Jenny softly. “I just want to bring a good man back to life.”

Lorne nodded, and nodded, and squeezed her hand. Then he said, “It’s rare that I give this information out, and I expect you not to abuse it. But there are people who can help you, if you’re willing to take a leap of faith.”

* * *

 

The address he gave her led Jenny to an empty swimming pool. An empty swimming pool, with shards of glass at the bottom and concrete that would _hurt_ like hell to land on. _A leap of faith,_ Lorne had said—but Jenny had been running on blind faith for a very long time. Faith in her uncle, faith in her family, faith that the path she was following was the safe one, the right one—

“No,” she said to the pool, and it shimmered. “No. Maybe other people take leaps of faith, but that’s not gonna happen with me.”

 _Don’t mistake my love for a lack of faith,_ Rupert had said.

“I have a man who I love,” said Jenny to the pool. “I have children who I love. I would do _anything_ to protect them, and I can’t do that if I risk my life. If you’re omnipotent powers—if you’re the people who can help me—you’ll _get_ how much my guy and my kids and I all need each other.” Though she'd meant it only for Rupert, the possessive had slipped out without warning for the children. It felt right. She said it again. “My _kids._ ”

The pool shimmered again.

“My faith is with those kids,” said Jenny. “My leap of faith is _not_ a leap, because I _won’t_ die knowing I took suicidal risks for nothing at all. I have to have faith that the world won’t let that happen.” She gave the concrete a smile that was supposed to be cold and brave, but thoughts of Rupert, of her _kids—_

The pool shimmered a third time, and then the world around Jenny dissolved into an underground chamber. In front of her was a young girl, sixteen at most, long dark hair, big brown eyes, beat-up military jacket— _wait._

“Okay, this is some next _level_ bullshit,” said Jenny.

Janna smiled in a vaguely creepy way that Jenny felt certain she had _never_ done at sixteen. “To guide you, we have chosen a face you’ll trust,” she said. “And she’s the most trusted guide in your life, isn’t she?”

“Great,” said Jenny. “I’m getting psychoanalyzed by the Powers that Be. Are you going to ask me about my relationship with my parents next?”

“Your faith has been tested,” said Janna. “Tried and true. Brave little Janna—loyal and unbending, even in the face of death.”

“I was definitely not this creepy at sixteen,” said Jenny, glaring at the kid.

“Try not to be so glib,” said the Powers that Be. “You will undertake three trials, and you will be granted a boon if you live to tell the tale.”

For the first time, Jenny found herself considering that this _maybe_ hadn’t been the greatest of ideas. But then she thought of Angel, and of the fact that, if not for him, she wouldn’t even be standing here right now—more likely she’d be rotting away, or dead along with Eyghon at Rupert’s hands, or somehow living with the knowledge that _she’d_ murdered Rupert. She owed it to him to at least _try._

_Brave little Janna._

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Three trials. I’m loyal, right? Test my loyalty.”

* * *

Jenny was in a graveyard, stake in hand, and Rupert was in front of her. No. Not Rupert.

“Loyalty to the cause,” said Janna from next to her. “Loyalty to what you have been told you must do. You have chosen this path—to rid the world of evil. Walk it.”

The vampire wearing Rupert’s face looked at her, eyes alight with predatory interest. “Jenny,” it said, low and syrupy. “Don’t you want this? You know I’d never kill you.” It took a step forward, touching her face just as gently as Rupert always had. “I love you,” it said. “I love you so much I’d turn you in a heartbeat, just to have you forever. Do you think your Rupert Giles would be brave enough to admit he wanted that?”

“My Rupert Giles is in Sunnydale,” said Jenny, voice shaking, “and he is waiting for me to come home.”

“Your Rupert Giles only ever loved his calling,” said the vampire. “You die here and he’ll forget you, eventually. He is devoted to saving the world above all else. He would sacrifice you in a heartbeat if he thought it was what the world needed, and you know it.” It took Jenny’s hands in its own, kissing the knuckles ever so gently. “I am what he would be if he was brave enough to take what he wanted,” it said. “Don’t you want your Rupert to worship you? You, and only ever you?” It let Jenny’s hands drop, then leaned in close enough to kiss her, stopping barely an inch from her mouth. “I take only what is freely given,” it whispered. “Give me your permission, and I’ll have you in _every_ way you’ve wanted.”

And Jenny had to admit—some small, ugly part of her was always going to hate that she and Rupert couldn’t just run away from the rest of the world and be happy. Live in a tiny little sunlit apartment, lives entwined—but he would never be able to do that.

 _Test my loyalty,_ she’d said. She hadn’t realized it would be this hard.

“Tell me what you want,” murmured Rupert. “I’ll do it. You are _all_ I need.”

But. No. That wasn’t right. They needed more things than just each other. They needed Buffy, and Willow, and yeah, even Xander and Cordelia sometimes, and Jenny's research, and Rupert's guitar—

Jenny stood on tiptoe and kissed the vampire, and she was right. He tasted like blood and lies. Without hesitation, and keeping her eyes closed, she drove the stake into his heart.

* * *

She didn’t feel him dissolve into dust. It was more as though the entire cemetery dissolved around her, and he just happened to go along with it. Opening her eyes, Jenny found herself back in the chamber, facing a smiling Janna. “Better than expected,” she pronounced.

“I should be better than that,” said Jenny quietly. “I shouldn’t have been tempted.”

“Overcoming temptation is the hallmark of a champion,” said the Powers that Be. “Pretending it does not exist is just as bad as giving in. Understand your weaknesses, Janna. They will make you stronger.”

Jenny thought of Rupert, _her_ Rupert, bringing back all the details she’d stored away on that terrible night. Grey in his hair, laugh lines round his mouth—the memories warmed her. God, she couldn’t wait to really kiss him when she was done with this. “So what’s next?” she said, fixing her little-girl self with a determined stare.

“Your valor,” said Janna, and the world shimmered again.

* * *

Now Jenny was facing Angelus, and the dizzying hatred she felt as she looked at him was _so_ much easier than Rupert in a graveyard. She lifted the sword she was holding—and Angelus rushed her, shoving her up against the wall, biting her neck without breaking the skin. He pulled back, laughing as she gasped and tried to twist away. “Not so tough without your boy here, aren’t you?” he sneered. “Didn’t you ever wonder how it would have gone if he hadn’t been there?”

“Get  _off_ me!” Jenny screamed.

“Come on, Janna, aren’t we having fun?” Angelus pushed her harder into the wall, pinning her like a butterfly. “Isn’t this what you wanted? You brought me out, and now you don’t want to play?”

Brave brave valor _brave—_ sorting through the jumble of incoherent panic, Jenny abruptly remembered something that Angelus seemed to have forgotten: she was still holding a sword. And she’d _chosen_ to be here, putting her life on the line to save his—he was nothing but another trial to overcome. An echo of what scared her most.

The knowledge settling Jenny, she stilled, looking up at him with a challenge in her eyes. “Do it, then,” she said.

Angelus blinked, smiling slowly, and then he sunk his fangs into her neck.

See, the thing about vampires was that they started getting really fucking dumb when they were snacking. Rupert had talked to Jenny about this a few weeks ago—he said that they let their guard down, because they figured they didn’t need a reason to have it up anymore. They’d achieved their goal, and their victim would be too weak to fight them off, so why waste time thinking when they could enjoy a meal instead?

Jenny had about two seconds before the blood loss rendered her useless, and she used them wisely. Taking advantage of the way Angelus was pressing himself against her, she stabbed the sword into his stomach.

Angelus roared, ripping a good chunk out of her neck as he tore himself away, but somehow this didn’t hurt as much as it should have. Or at all, really. Suddenly, all that existed was Jenny and Angel and the sword, which _definitely_ must have been a magic sword, because there was _no_ way a tiny computer science teacher could be cutting that far into a big, brawny vampire, right?

Angelus fell back, skewered on the sword. A little dizzy, and the pain beginning to set in, Jenny staggered forward, yanked the sword out of his stomach, and drove it through his heart instead.

* * *

The moment her sword hit the mark, Angelus was gone. Looking up, Jenny saw Janna once again, now outright beaming. “Incredible!” she chirped. “ _Well_ surpassing our wildest expectations. Only one more to go, Janna!”

“Can you at _least_ fix my neck before you do?” Jenny demanded through gritted teeth, pressing a hand to her bleeding neck. Angelus’s bite had gone in pretty deep.

Janna seemed to seriously consider the question. “Pass the third trial,” she said, “and we’ll see what we can do about your neck.”

* * *

 

This time, however, the chamber didn’t dissolve into another world. This time, the chamber stayed exactly as it was, and Janna stayed looking at Jenny with bright, black eyes. “I don’t get it,” said Jenny. “Are you the third trial?”

Janna smiled, sharp and dangerous, and shook her head. She stepped forward, taking the sword from Jenny, and held it thoughtfully in front of her. “The third trial is simple,” she said. “We know what you want. We have always known. But we cannot return a life without taking one away.”

“What?” said Jenny unsteadily.

“Lay down your life for the life of Angel’s,” said the Powers that Be. “Die so that he may live, and we will restore him exactly as he was. Time will be rewritten, futures and fates changed, and Angel will save _countless_ lives as a champion of the light.”

Jenny stared. And god, for a moment, she was so, so sure that giving her life up was the right move to make. There would be a catch, wouldn’t there? Janna’s sword would pass through her without hurting, and she would be rewarded for her faith and her valor, and she would bring Angel home, both of them as close to happy as they could possibly be.

But—

But Lorne had told Jenny to jump into a pool of broken glass, hadn’t he? And Jenny hadn’t done that, because she had somebody—she had _so many people_ who would _hurt_ if she gave up her life for Angel’s. She couldn’t make that choice willingly. Not knowing what it would do to the people she loved.

“No,” she said. Because, in the end, it didn’t matter whether or not it was the right answer for the Powers. What mattered was the right answer for _Jenny,_ and her moral compass had never once steered her wrong.

Janna blinked. “Are you sure?” she said. “You’ve come so far—farther than most—and here you are, willing to turn and walk away?”

“I’m not walking _away_ from this,” said Jenny, “I just—” She exhaled, near tears. Her realization had stunned her, a little. “I grew up being told that my life was worth less than his,” she said. “Angelus was a legend of time immemorial, and I was Janna the expendable. Janna who didn’t know magic.”

“Is your life worth more than his?” asked the Powers that Be.

“I don’t _care_ whose life is worth more,” Jenny burst out, and _god,_ did it feel freeing to say. “It doesn’t _matter_ whose life is worth more. I’m alive, and he’s dead, and I’m _not_ throwing away my chance to _help_ the people I love. And I’m _sorry—”_ Her voice broke; she scrubbed, roughly at her face. “I would have done _anything_ to save him,” she sobbed out. “ _Anything._ He didn’t deserve what he got. But I _won’t_ die for him.”

“Why?” Janna asked.

“Because my life is _worth something,”_ said Jenny fiercely.

Janna smiled. This wasn’t the slow, creepy, Powers-that-Be smile—this was the open-mouthed grin that Jenny knew from the mirror. “ _God,_ you’re brave!” she said, her voice clearer, older, a strange echo of Jenny’s own. “Brave, and true, and led by faith in _yourself_. A true hero you are, Jenny Calendar, and your _true_ wish will be rewarded to you.”

* * *

 

Jenny woke up on hard concrete, a few feet away from the empty swimming pool. Wincing, she sat up, attempting to piece together what had happened. She’d undergone the trials, she’d overcome temptation, she’d killed her childhood monster, she’d found faith in herself—and then—

“Ow,” said a voice from next to her.

Jenny twisted, nearly falling back down, and her heart leapt. Sitting next to her, lit up in the moonlight, was a dazed, bruised Angel, blinking at her as though not quite sure why she was there. “Angel,” she whispered.

“Ms. Calendar,” said Angel, raising a hand to a particularly angry bruise on his cheek. “Hi. You, uh, you know why we’re here?”

Jenny let out a shaking breath, the _hugeness_ of the moment hitting her like an anvil. “Is it you?” she asked unsteadily.

“What does that—” Angel stopped. Slowly, a look of pained comprehension crossed his face. “Did I—hurt anyone?” he said.

“No,” said Jenny immediately.

Angel fixed her with an almost reproving look. “Don’t lie to save my feelings, Ms. Calendar,” he said. “I don’t remember the details, but—”

“You are _not_ Angelus, Angel,” said Jenny firmly. “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to bring _Angelus_ back from the dead.”

That made Angel all but freeze, staring at her with wide eyes. Weakly, he said, “You what?”

God. Okay. Explanation time. “You, um, you lost your soul, as I’m sure you guessed,” said Jenny carefully. “Buffy was…distraught, understandably, and I decided I was going to find a way to—to get you back. Somehow.”

“But that doesn’t explain—”

Jenny held up a hand. “Angelus didn’t want his soul back,” she said, then hesitated. She hated having to tell Angel this part; she knew he would feel responsible. “He showed up in my classroom while I was working on a restoration ritual—”

“Oh, god,” said Angel, paling.

“—and Rupert killed him,” Jenny finished.

Angel blinked, then smiled a little weakly. “Good,” he said. “I-I know Angelus. He wouldn’t have made it quick.”

Putting aside _that_ disturbing statement, Jenny moved closer, reaching up to touch Angel’s warm cheek. For the first time, she like this really was something she might be able to fix. “You’re not him, you know,” she said softly.

“I’m always gonna be him,” said Angel, looking at Jenny with old, tired eyes.

“No,” said Jenny. “Angelus wouldn’t have saved me from Eyghon, Angel, and he certainly wouldn’t have loved Buffy enough to put his life on the line for her time and time again. Maybe you’re always going to be fighting that demon inside you, Angel, but a lesser man might have just given in.”

Angel looked at her for a long moment, then said, “You’re like me, huh?”

This took Jenny aback. “How so?”

“An anomaly,” said Angel. “Kindness born from vengeance.”

Jenny gave him a small, wry smile. “It isn’t ever as poetic as that,” she said. “Kindness isn’t _born,_ Angel, it’s a _choice._ I think you need to remember that.”

“I think you should too,” said Angel, and reached up to squeeze Jenny’s hand in a warm grip.

Warm.

Hold on.

Just as a half-formed theory was beginning to piece itself together, the sun began to rise. Angel jumped up, scanning the area for any available shade, but there was no shadow being cast that would reliably protect him from sunlight. “Uh, Ms. Calendar?” he said thinly, sounding very much like he was trying his best not to panic. “You feel like calling on whatever it was that brought me back?”

But Jenny stayed still, eyes wide. She’d noticed something that Angel hadn’t just yet.

“Ms.  _Calendar—_ ” Angel repeated sharply, and that was when the penny dropped for him. He raised his hands to his face, staring at them in natural sunlight for what Jenny assumed was the first time in _hundreds_ of years. “Ms. Calendar,” he said, now in a completely different tone of voice. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do a damn thing,” said Jenny, a slow grin spreading across her face. She stood up, strode over to Angel, and tugged at his sleeve until it revealed his wrist, pressing her fingers right at the base of his hand till—

Their eyes met. Angel looked dumbfounded. “This isn’t possible,” he said. “I mean, it just—it isn’t _possible._ ”

“The Powers said they couldn’t bring back a life without taking one away,” said Jenny, an incredulous laugh in her voice. “Angel, I think they took _Angelus_ away.”

“But I’m—” Angel swallowed, now looking just as overcome as Jenny had felt upon seeing her. “I don’t deserve this,” he said.

“Okay,” said Jenny. “So you don’t. Maybe _I_ do. The Powers said they were granting me my true wish—I can’t think of anything I want more right now than for you and Buffy to get the chance to be happy.” When Angel didn’t seem to have anything to say to that, she smiled, taking his hands in hers. “C’mon, Angel,” she said. “We’re done with this destiny crap. Let’s get back to the people we love.”

Angel considered. Then, looking slowly down at the sunlight hitting their joined hands, he said, “Uh, can we hit the beach first? I kinda want to work on my tan.”

 _“That’s_ the spirit,” said Jenny with satisfaction.

* * *

 

The beat-up Bug pulled up outside Sunnydale High at around noon. Giles saw it first, and drew in a soft, nervous breath, the kind of sound that only Ms. Calendar could draw out of him—and _that_ got Buffy’s attention, because Ms. Calendar had gone off on her quest to bring Angel back. And if Ms. Calendar was back, then—then that either meant she’d found something, or she’d given up.

Buffy wasn’t sure which one she was hoping for, or even if she was really hoping for anything at all. All she knew was that she couldn’t go another day without knowing whether or not she’d ever see Angel again. Standing up from the stone bench, she waited, eyes fixed on the Bug.

Ms. Calendar got out of the front seat. That struck Buffy as odd, because that was definitely Ms. Calendar’s car, right? But that was also definitely Ms. Calendar, getting out of the front seat of her own car, wearing a sundress and a big, floppy sun hat. She saw them, and smiled, a big, luminous smile the likes of which Buffy hadn’t seen since—

Angel.

Angel, in the sunlight.

Angel, in the sunlight, getting out of the driver’s side of the car, wearing a dorky Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses and looking a little sunburned. Angel, grinning at all of them like he’d just come back from vacation and not the dead. Angel Angel _Angel—_

Buffy couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She felt like she had to be dreaming.

“HEY!” Ms. Calendar called. “HEY, RUPERT, I DID IT!”

And somehow, that was what shattered the uncertainty for all of them. Willow _shrieked,_ Xander stared, Cordelia said, “Thank _god,_ because I did _not_ want to deal with all this _moping_ during junior prom,” and Buffy _ran_ across the green, heedless of Slayer speed or how it might look to her classmates.

Angel caught her against the car with an _oof,_ hugging her tightly and whispering fierce words of love into Buffy’s hair. Buffy had questions, so _many_ of them, but right now she was crying too hard to muster up asking any.

“I love you,” she sobbed. “I love you I love you I _love_ you—”

Angel tilted Buffy’s chin up and kissed her. And _everything_ was okay again.

* * *

Rupert crossed the courtyard at a slower pace, observing Buffy and Angel’s love-fest with a small, stunned smile that conveyed just as much happiness as Jenny felt. He reached her right when Buffy and Angel were finally beginning to whisper questions-and-answers to each other, Buffy still crying too hard for anyone but Angel to understand her. Deftly skirting the couple, he took Jenny in his arms.

 _My doing,_ she thought. _Brave, and true, and led by faith in myself._

“So it looks like we’re back on the clock,” she informed Rupert. “Kids, demons, endlessly boring faculty meetings—”

“Late-night research in the stacks,” said Rupert, eyes soft and bright. “Morning coffee at my apartment. Monster trucks once a month, because I really am willing to make a few compromises—”

“Hey, I love you,” said Jenny, suddenly unable _not_ to say it.

Rupert blinked, then grinned, a stunned, slow smile as though this was the very first time he was hearing it. “I love you too,” he whispered, and bumped his forehead against hers, cupping her face in large, gentle hands.

Jenny closed her eyes, and smiled. She was home.


End file.
